Lovesong
by tinseltowns
Summary: She was closer, much closer, and it felt pretty damn good.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any characters mentioned in this story, nor do I own Degrassi.

**A/N: **So, the idea behind this story kind of came up randomly. I was just kind of thinking one night at, like, midnight, and voila! I don't want to say too much about it, but it will be a multi-chapter, if you guys like it. Other than that, there's not much else to say but enjoy!

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><p>Prologue.<p>

_"Whenever I'm alone with you, you make me feel like I am home again._  
><em> Whenever I'm alone with you, you make me feel like I am whole again."<em>

Feet made small patters on the hallway's carpeted floor as she walked, slowly and steadily towards the door to the master bedroom of the house. She'd been wanting this all day, dreaming about it, the thought of being here clouding her mind completely. She walked past the slightly ajar bedroom door of the boy, peeking in quickly to make sure he was still asleep. She'd put him to sleep an hour ago, and he was known for being a light sleeper. There he laid, arms sprawled out in the twin bed, eyes closed as his small chest rose up and down in a rhythmic pattern. She smiled to herself, closing the door carefully before continuing to the door at the end of the hall.

One hand slipped to grasp the handle of the door, turning it cautiously, opening the door. She walked inside strategically; she'd been practicing, admittedly. She quietly closed the door behind herself, turning around to see the familiar king sized bed in the center of the room. As she drew closer and closer to the man still sleeping, a smile spread across her face. She was in love with him, so undeniably in love, and she couldn't help but feel her heart flutter as he mumbled something incoherent, pressing his brows together. She stood at his bedside, reaching over to stroke his cheek. His skin was so soft, with the exception of the usual stubble he'd have if he'd forgotten to shave that day. Her manicured fingers moved to brush the dark brown hair out of his face, playing with the strands that shone dully in the moonlit room. He was so peaceful, so still.

He was so beautiful.

Her hand trailed down to the crook of his neck, then to his shoulders, all the way to his hand worked beneath the navy blue covers of the bed. She took his hand in her own, interlacing their fingers, hoping that he wouldn't wake up. She'd done this before, came in while he was sleeping, sitting on the little satin couch by the window and watching his mannerisms. It was a new habit, taking initiative and feeling the soft texture of his skin on her palm. Of course, she'd nearly woken him up, but to see the smile on his face as her fingers, _her_ _own_ fingers, caressed his cheek, all of it was worth it, and she forgot why she was there in the first place.

Another murmur fell from his lips, this one sounding more and more like a sentence. She pressed her lips to a line, leaning down to bring her ear closer to his mouth. The sound of his steady breathing sent chills down her spine, her mind running wild, as it had on more than one occasion. "…leave…not her…all wrong…never…again..." he whispered, his grip on her hand tightening. She bit the inside of her cheek, realizing he was having one of his fits again. The only thing she could do was wait it out, tell him when he came downstairs for a glass of water and an aspirin that he'd just been having another nightmare. Because that's all it was, a nightmare. About her, and what she'd do; even though she'd been telling him for days now that everything was fine, everyone else subconsciously knew otherwise.

Carefully, she pried her hand away from his, backing away from the man she loved so much, her steps muffled by the carpeting on the floor. She needed to get away, before he woke up, before she woke up, before they all woke up and were screaming at her. As she walked to the door, a figure on the other side of the bed groaned, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She froze, heart stopping, body shutting down. The figure, masked by the shadow of the dark room, stood up, walking in the opposite direction towards the conjoined bathroom. The figure disappeared, and the other girl's heart began to slowly beat again. Holding her breath, she opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway, running down the passageway and continued down the stairs. She sighed, walking into the kitchen and taking her usual place at the small dining table, folding her hands and waiting. It seemed like that's the only thing she could do, wait.

Wait for the right time to claim him as her own. Wait for the right time to replace _her_.

Oh, yes, she'd been rejected. Quite brutally, at first. But over time she'd realized that she had the capability to control her surroundings, and that eventually, if she tried, he would be her's completely. Footsteps creaked on the wooden staircase beside the kitchen, a woman peering her head into the room. "Oh, it's just you," she laughed, running her hand through her hair. Her eyes scanned her expression, searching for anything out of the ordinary; this, this woman, was the figure from before. The one she loathed more than anyone else. This woman, the figure, was _her_. And the two women were alone together, staring each other down in the middle of a kitchen, notably filled with sharp objects like knives and forks. Plastering a smile on her face, she stood, walking towards the cherry wood and granite island in the middle of the room. Shrugging, she cocked her head to the side, trying to create a diversion so that the other woman, the figure, didn't know what she was doing.

"Just little old me, nothing to worry about," she cooed, one hand moving to slide out one of the drawers. Her hand moved inside, fingers gliding over the different appliances until she finally felt something sharp; a knife. Perfect. "Because, obviously I'm no threat whatsoever to you, and your _precious_ husband," she mused, words laced with malice. The figure, the other woman, raised an eyebrow, placing her hands on her hips. "That's a little bit…random," she replied, taking an unwilling step closer to her.

She laughed, sliding the knife out of it's cradle, and into the sleeve of her jacket, the blade concealed within the black leather. Closing the drawer, she walked around the front of the island, closer to the figure. "Do you know what's random?" she asked softly, innocently, eyes begging her for something unknown through her lashes. The other woman bit her lip, shaking her head no. Slowly, she slipped the knife into her hand, the wooden handle fitting almost perfectly in her palm. A smirk crept upon her lips, and her eyes narrowed at the figure. She sneered, "How you ended up with him."

The figure, the other woman, opened her mouth to retort, but was cut short as the cool blade of a knife caught her eye. Her mouth snapped shut, her hands beginning to shake. "W-what are you doing?" she asked in a hushed tone, eyes never leaving the metallic glint of the blade. The smirk remained on her face, unmoving as she lifted the knife, examining it with her own eyes. "What do you think?" she asked calmly, face becoming stoic, unemotional.

She'd put up a mask, again.

She was trying to push all of her regretful thoughts away, again.

She needed to end this now.

Eyes flickered to the figure, her grip tightening on the handle. "I'll skip the guessing game, and just get to the point, and tell you," she said, watching the facial expressions of the other woman change by the second. A wicked grin replaced her stone-faced mask, and she walked around behind the other woman. Brushing her hair behind her ear, she leaned in, lips inches from the side of her face. "Or maybe I could show you," she whispered.

The blade of the knife met the figure's aorta, puncturing the artery. Blood seeped through the white fabric of her nightgown as she pulled the knife out of her porcelain skin. She watched as her chest heaved, breathing becoming staggered, and the figure fell to the floor. She looked on with an inflamed sense of pride as her eyes blinked rapidly, as she began to choke on the air around her, and as her eyes finally closed, hands falling into the pool of her own blood. She bent down, slipping the knife between the figure's fingers, and walked into the kitchen, turning on the sink to rinse the blood from her hands. Walking towards the front door, she made sure to look behind her as she left, smiling as she realized the chances of getting her way were rising.

She was closer, much closer, and it felt pretty damn good.

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><p><strong>AN #2:** Well, I hope you enjoyed it.

Reviews are much appreciated.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any characters in this story, nor do I own Degrassi.

**A/N:** So, this is the 'first' chapter of the story, the last one being the prologue. Thank you for all the positive feedback on the story, and I will be continuing it. This chapter isn't as intense, shall you say as the last one. I hope you like it!

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><p><em>Chapter 1<em>

Imogen Moreno took in a deep breath, sighing heavily, contently, as she walked through the white picket fence towards the brick townhouse. She was being interviewed today, for a position as the au pair for a family who's last name she couldn't quite remember. _Goldsomething_, she thought. She chewed on her lip nervously, ringing the doorbell, and waited. It seemed like an eternity, standing there on the front porch in the November air. She shivered, and rubbed her arm in a vain attempt to warm herself. It didn't work, as she suspected.

The door swung open, a little boy with curly brown hair and wide green eyes staring back at her. He had a curious smile on his face, freckles adorning the bridge of his nose. He couldn't have been more than four years old. "Mommy! There's a girl at the door!" he called, jumping up and down excitedly. Imogen smiled, waving to him. He waved back enthusiastically, only to stop altogether. "Who are you?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. She laughed, "My name is Imogen." He made a face, pressing his eyebrows to a line. "Im-oh-gen? Imogen, Imogen, Imogen. Imo-gen. How do you spell it? What's an Imogen? Are you an Imogen?" he asked. She pursed her lips, folding her arms, peeking inside the house. "Quentin? Who's the girl you're talking to?" a voice called, causing the little boy to jump. "Oh, your name's Quentin. That's a nice name," Imogen said, watching as his face lit up. "I like my name! My Uncle Adam calls me Q sometimes!" he exclaimed, grinning.

A man with dark brown hair appeared behind Quentin, laying his hands on the smaller boy's shouders. He looked down at him, something between a smirk and a smile playing on his lips. "Who are you talking t-" he cut himself short, looking up to see Imogen standing in the doorway. She waved faintly, offering him a small smile. "Daddy, this is an Imo-gen," Quentin announced, pointing in her direction. She giggled nervously, "Hi." His eyes flickered, scanning her from head to toe. Her heart raced; he couldn't have been much older than her, maybe a year or two. After all, she was only 21. That'd make him 23, at most. His eyes were a deep green color, hooded by his somewhat shaggy hair. He was somewhat taller than her, only by an inch or so.

"Imogen Moreno, right? I'm Eli, we spoke on the phone," he chuckled, holding out his hand. She took it, heart rate quickening as he shook it. She nodded, "About the au pair job." She'd called a few days ago, talked to him about being the babysitter for Quentin, take care of him during the day while the rest of his family worked. She'd assumed either he was a single father, or his wife worked long hours, and that he was much older than he'd turned out to be. "Come inside," he said, lifting up Quentin and stepping aside. Imogen pressed her lips to a line, walking into the house, looking around and examining her surroundings.

In the center of the room was a staircase, banisters curving away from one another at their ends. To the left was a living room, black leather couches and armchairs surrounded around a gray stone fireplace. To the right was a kitchen, cherry-colored cabinets lining the walls. Stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, an island in the center and breakfast table beside the sliding glass doors that led outside to a wooden deck. The walls were painted a simple off-white color, with deep brown hardwood floors that shone underneath track lighting. High ceilings, a few strategically placed floor-to-ceiling windows; this house was something she'd only imagined.

She swallowed, biting her lip as Eli led her into the living room, sitting down beside her on one of the two couches. Quentin escaped from his father's hold, plopping down in an armchair and folding his hands in his lap, a look of concentration on his face. "So," he said in a strained deep voice, "you want to be my babysitter, do you not?" Eli pinched the bridge of his nose, laughing to himself. "As you can tell, his vocabulary is extremely advanced," he mused, glancing at his beaming son. "I read my daddy's books sometimes. He reads a lot of Panelhuck." Imogen laughed, raising an eyebrow. "Panelhuck?"

"He means Palahniuk," Eli replied. Imogen nodded, eyes flickering between father and son. Their eyes were almost identical, the same green color. Eli's, however, were a little deeper, a little more mysterious. "His last name is funny. And _you're_ always telling me that I'm wrong!" Quentin pouted, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. Eli waved his hand, swatting the air teasingly. "Anyway, from what you told me beforehand, you pretty much have the job. And that one over there-" "Me!" Quentin exclaimed, raising his hand. Rolling his eyes, Eli sighed, continuing. "Seems to like you. So, if you don't mind, my wife should be home in a few minutes. She went out for a little while. Usually, she would've been here sooner, but she just got hired down at a bookstore downtown, which is why we need someone to watch Quenti-"

"Me!" his hand shot up again, shaking enthusiastically in the air. Eli closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. "Quentin, c'mere," he asked, beckoning him. The boy stood up, running over to his father's side. He looked up at him with wide eyes, an innocent look on his freckled face. "Mhm?" he asked, sticking out his bottom lip. Eli let his head drop, glancing up at his son through his hair. "You're lucky you're cute," he muttered, kissing his forehead. Quentin giggled, wrapping his arms around his neck, holding onto him tightly. Imogen smiled to herself, feeling somewhat out of place; it was like she wasn't there at all, like she was an audience member thrown into a heartfelt scene of a movie, or placed somewhere in between the lines of a story.

The sound of the front door closing echoed throughout the room, followed by the metallic sound of keys clanking together. "Hello?" a voice questioned openly. Imogen turned around to see a woman walk into the living room, examining her as she set down her purse on a coffee table. She wasn't much taller than her, maybe shorter, with honey colored hair and electric blue eyes. Her hair fell about an inch past her shoulder, tousled curls tucked behind one ear. She was wearing faded jeans, and a slightly stretched brown sweater, along with black ballet flats. She couldn't have been older than 22, maybe even her age.

The woman smiled at Imogen, walking beside the couch, looking down at her. She smiled in return, standing up. She'd guessed right; the woman was shorter than her. "Hi, I'm Clare, Quentin's mom," she introduced, holding out her hand. Imogen took it, a taking in a deep breath. "Imogen Moreno, pleased to meet you," she replied, laughing nervously. Clare let go, placing her hands on her hips, looking over at Eli fleetingly. "Eli told me you two talked on the phone, and he said you'd be perfect for the job." Imogen turned around, glancing over at him; he nodded, winking. Blushing, she turned back to the other woman, muttering a 'thank you'. "You have my approval, so I guess this means you're hired."

Imogen squealed, her hands flying to her mouth. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise, I won't let you down," she assured, grinning. Clare laughed, nodding as she slipped her hands into her pockets.

"So, we'll see you tomorrow then?" Eli chimed in, leaning back into the couch, Quentin still in his arms. "At, say, 9?" She nodded, rubbing her lips together. "I'll be here," she replied, flashing the both of them an enthusiastic smile. "I better be going then," she said, playing with the strap of her purse. Clare nodded, sitting down beside Eli. Imogen waved quickly to the two, walking back to the front door, glancing back at the three before walking outside again. The cool air stung her cheeks, which were evidently flushed. She hadn't realized how much she'd been blushing, and knew exactly who was responsible.

_Mr. Goldsworthy, you are going to be a challenge._


End file.
